“Barbara,” he breathed, in ecstasy.  “She died loving me.”

The slender white hand stole out to his, half fearfully.  “Yes, Daddy, I’ve always told you so, don’t you know?” Her senses whirled, but she kept her voice even.

“She died loving me,” he whispered.

The clock ticked steadily, a door closed below, and a little bird outside chirped softly.  There was no other sound save the wild beating of Barbara’s heart, which she alone heard.  Still transfigured, he sat beside the bed, holding her hand in his.

[Sidenote:  Far-Away Voices]

Far-away voices sounded faintly in his ears, for, like a garment, the years had fallen from him and taken with them the questioning and the fear.  Into his doubting heart Constance had come once more, radiant with new beauty, thrilling his soul to new worship and new belief.

“She died loving me,” he said, as though he could scarcely believe his own words.  “Barbara, I know it is much to ask, for it must be very precious to you, but—­would you let me hold the letter?  Would you let me feel the words I cannot see?”

Choking back a sob, Barbara took both sheets out of the envelope and gave them to him.  “Show me,” he whispered, “show me the line where she wrote, ’Tell him I love him still, and have never loved him more than I do to-day.’”

When Barbara put his finger upon the words, he bent and kissed them.  “What does it say here?”

He pointed to the paragraph beginning, “I have made the mistake which many girls make.”

“It says,” answered Barbara, “’There is not a word to be said of him that is not wholly good.’” He bent and kissed that, too.  “And here?” His finger pointed to the line, “I did not know that a woman could love love, rather than the man who gave it to her.”

“That is where it says again, ’Tell him I have loved him, that I love him still, and have never loved him more than I do to-day.’”

“Dear, blessed Constance,” he said, crushing the lie to his lips.  “Dear wife, true wife; truest of all the world.”

Barbara could bear no more.  “Let me have the letter again, Daddy.”

[Sidenote:  After Years of Waiting]

“No, dear, no.  After all these years of waiting, let me keep it for a little while.  Just for a little while, Barbara.  Please.”  His voice broke at the end.

“For a little while, then, Daddy,” she said, slowly; “only a little while.”

[Sidenote:  His Illumined Face]

He went out, with the precious letter in his hand.  Miriam was in the hall, but he was unconscious of the fact.  She shrank back against the wall as he passed her, with his fine old face illumined as from some light within.

In his own room, he sat down, after closing the door, and spread the two sheets on the table before him.  He moved his hands caressingly over the lines Constance had written in ink and Barbara in pencil.